Show number seven closed two nights ago, which was hot on the heels of show number six that closed on Friday, and show number five that closed the Sunday before, and I am slowly surfacing from a triple dose of play postpartum depression. I feel good about them. I’ve never felt more like a hamster in its wheel in my life but I was, as those small creatures are, completely content to run and run and run for hours on end.
It’s when you take the wheel away that I start to go a little bonkers. Sitting at my scratched mahogany desk, staring at the computer screen, knowing I have nowhere in particular to go at the end of the day, that’s the real work. Getting up in the morning thinking I don’t know if that was the last show, the last shot before adulthood and the mortgage and all the other things you are supposed to have when you grow up. Not to be all Peter Pan about it, but I find myself wanting to leave doors open, to stop gathering things in this already overstuffed apartment of mine, to forget to do laundry until I run out of underwear. It makes me feel like there’ll be another.
Few friends came this time, mostly because the ones who care are out of town. (Story of my life.) Some who were in town kept offering either bizarre or banal excuses – “I can’t sit on the floor, I need back support”; “I had to work”; “I guess I just forgot.” I don’t mind, exactly, but when the curtain call ends and the friends come forth with their flowers and hugs and congratulations it’s a little lonely to be the one wading through people picking up props and set pieces. I don’t do this to be watched by friends, of course, it’s so much more complicated than that, but once, just once, I want some flowers too. (The sweetheart show number seven cast gave me flowers – they’re in the picture.)
Listening to: The Decemberists